


Resurrection Sunday

by L6vy



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Corpses, Crack Treated Seriously, Dark, Dead Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa, M/M, Or maybe not so dead?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:29:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27287200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L6vy/pseuds/L6vy
Summary: Martín knew how desperate this was. How impossible it was to resurrect someone from the dead. But he had to try.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Resurrection Sunday

Martín watched Nedor filling the liquid he had just finished making into two cups. It looked like water, almost transparent, but with a strange simmer to it. He had expected something more spectacular, a bright color or a strong smell maybe.

Not for the first time, he wondered if he had made the right decision. It was certainly not a rational one. Nothing about standing in a big field in the middle of nowhere at 3 am in the morning was rational. Especially not when you were surrounded by twelve suspiciously looking men in long dark coats speaking a foreign language with each other and you barely knew one of them enough to remember his name.

It was definitely irrational, yes, but it was worth the try. Martín fixed his eyes on the table in front of him, and the coffin on top of it. It was extremely plain, made of simple, dark wood, nothing elegant or sophisticated about it, so very different from the man inside of it. It made it even harder to imagine that he was actually in there, that he was actually dead.

Martín closed his eyes for a moment, his chest tightening. He knew fighting death, trying to defeat it, wasn’t right. It felt wrong, very wrong. But he wasn’t just going to do nothing. And really, what harm could it possibly do that was bigger than the pain he was already in?

If it was even going to work, which was unlikely. He’d say the probability of the whole thing just failing and nothing happening at all was at about 99 percent.

He frowned, opening his eyes. Once again, his life was depending on one tiny percent and the power it could hold. He didn’t like it.

“It’s time.”

Nedor stood next to him, speaking with his quiet, raspy voice. It always sounded so weak, Martín thought. Too weak for a man who was probably not much older than himself.

The other man held up a knife, the blade shining in the light of the fire they had lit next to the table. The flames were dancing over the metal, warm on the cold material, making it look like it was melting. Like gold.

Martín took a deep breath and threw one last look at the table, reminding himself what he was doing this for. Just a bit of his blood, a small price to pay for a life.

He turned his head towards Nedor and nodded.

Nedor turned around and walked to the table they had prepared. He stopped in front of one of the cups, gesturing towards it.

Martín stepped next to him, glancing into the substance simmering in the cup. He held his hand over it and fixed his eyes on Nedor again.

He barely felt any pain when the blade slid into his palm.

Bright hot blood was rapidly pouring out of it, dripping into the cup and turning the liquid red.

Martín suddenly felt a sting in his eyes. He blinked, bringing his other hand up to start rubbing them. It didn’t help, and the rubbing probably only made it worse, but at least he didn’t need to look at Nedor.

He wondered what effect the blood was supposed to have on the drink. It all seemed like a big conspiracy to him, a hocus pocus that Nedor and those other people had fallen for and were worshiping like some sort of religion.

But wasn’t he also believing in it now? For a short moment, he feared that he had gone crazy. Maybe he had. It wouldn’t even matter. Not if it didn’t work. And if it did work, then yes, he was believing in it and probably a very crazy man.

Pain started shooting up his hand, so sudden and sharp that it almost drowned out the sting in his eyes. He gritted his teeth.

It was just some blood.

“Enough,” Nedor said.

Martín turned up his palm, removing his other hand from his eyes to face Nedor again. He knew what came next, they had walked through the steps countless times, to make sure everything went right.

A nameless man came up to him to bandage his hand. The wound wasn’t that deep, Martín was sure that it would stop bleeding soon.

When he had retreated, Nedor handed him the other cup, its liquid still reminding him of water.

Martín felt strangely empty as he took it. Soon, he would know whether all of this was for nothing. Not for the first time, he asked himself what Nedor and the other men got out of this. Necessary tests to improve their procedure, he had said. It had sounded reasonable enough.

But why exactly did he trust this guy? He could be playing a trick on him for all he knew.

Well, he would find out soon. And if it didn’t work, what did he have to lose?

The sting in his eyes made him blink a few times as he focused on the cup again.

He raised it to his lips and started drinking. The liquid didn’t really taste like anything. Not even like water. But maybe his tastebuds weren’t working properly.

It wasn’t until the last sip that he started feeling it. A slow tingle in his fingertips that worked itself through his body, making his skin itchy. He resisted the urge to start scratching his arms as it crawled through them. A shiver ran down his spine.

This definitely seemed to have some sort of effect. Martín didn’t know if he should be glad or worried about it. His eyes shot to Nedor. He had never mentioned anything about this. But then again, Martín had also never asked.

Nedor watched him closely, his eyes intense. Something must have told him about Martín’s feelings, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. He was still far from smiling, but Martín wasn’t sure if he was even capable of that.

“It’s time for the last step,” he announced, shoving the other cup with the now red liquid into Martín’s hands. Which were trembling. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Ok,” he whispered.

He turned around, looking at the coffin again.

Two of the men around them approached it. With one swift movement, they opened the lid. As they stepped back, Martín stepped forward, pulled towards the table and the man inside the coffin.

Seeing the first glimpses of Andrés was weird. It felt surreal, as if this was just another dream that he would wake up from any second.

Martín could tell he didn’t look like himself, even from here.

Nonetheless, his legs carried him towards the corpse on their own, drawn towards the man in the same way they had been drawn to him while he had still been alive.

When he came to a halt in front of him, Martín looked into his dead face. It was white, even in the warm light of the fire. His eyes were closed. His mouth was slightly open, as if he was about to speak. For a moment, Martín imagined him opening his eyes, telling him to stop. To walk away, right now, forget about him, forget about this, never turn around, never again.

He wondered if Andrés would actually say that. Martín liked to imagine that what he was doing was something Andrés appreciated. Surely, if there was one man who would rise from the dead, it should be him. Cheating death, that sounded like something Andrés would want to do.

Stealing back a life, that sounded like something Martín was about to do. Sergio’s heist might have been the biggest in the history of Spain, but Martín was about to do the biggest heist in the history of death. Something countless people had tried, and failed to do, about that he was certain.

And there was nothing that indicated it would be any different for him. Not really. But he had to try. It was desperate, an act of rebellion, just like stealing the gold from the Bank of Spain would have been.

He raised the cup in his hands to his lips, taking as much of the liquid inside his mouth as possible. His tongue was immediately hit by the strong taste of iron, and he had to resist the urge to spit it all back into the cup.

He slowly leaned down and sealed his lips against the bloodless ones of Andrés.

His free hand found his chin, forcefully opening the mouth wider. Andrés felt cold, stiff, inhuman. But it was still Andrés. Martín knew it was still him.

As he opened his mouth, the liquid passed from his mouth into Andrés’, gravitation forcing it downwards. The taste of blood stayed.

Martín watched Andrés’ face, the white skin, the dark eyebrows, the laughing lines next to his eyes. He would give everything to see Andrés smile again, to hear his laughter next to him. To feel his hand on his shoulder, see the sparkle in those eyes whenever he had looked at him.

Maybe, just maybe, this would work. There was a one percent chance.

Nothing happened.

Martín knew quite a lot about statistics, certainly enough to be able to tell that it was usually the event with the probability of 99 percent that would happen. A one percent chance was incredibly small next to it. Andrés maybe hadn’t been aware of that, but that didn’t make it any less true.

The silence around him was deadly, just as deadly as it had been a few minutes ago, just as deadly as Andrés had been all the time. The only sound was the crackle of the fire.

Perhaps it was good that it hadn’t worked, Martín thought. He wasn’t supposed to decide over life and death.

Perhaps Andrés was just not supposed to be alive. Maybe this had been his destiny all along, dying in his brother’s heist after breaking his best friend’s heart. And maybe it was Martín’s destiny to live with the pain, to be the heartbroken lover.

But then again, Martín had never actually believed in something like destiny.

The gulp coming from the man below him was loud in his ears, disturbing the silence and startling him out of his thoughts.

Martín stared at Andrés. Had he really heard this? Was this really happening?

Suddenly, there were arms around him, fingers digging into his shoulders, dragging him down.

Andrés’ mouth claimed his, violently, his teeth clacking against Martín’s forcefully.

Martín couldn’t believe what was happening. A part of him told him, begged him, to move away from this thing, as quickly and as far as possible.

But the bigger part of him simply felt relief. He stayed where he was, embracing the fingernails clawing into his clothes, the teeth biting into his lips. He could barely breath in enough air through his nose, and it felt like the air that he got was sucked right out of him again. But it didn’t matter.

Andrés was breathing through him. He could feel the rhythmic in and out, puffs of hot air getting into his mouth, only to vanish once more one second later.

Martín’s body wanted to protest, wanted to escape from the deadly hold, but that didn’t matter. Not when Andrés had just opened his eyes. He was now staring directly back at him. His eyes looked pitch black, but maybe it was just the darkness, it had to be. Andrés’ eyes had always been dark.

Martín was getting weaker, he started to shake now. But he couldn’t look away, couldn’t turn away, didn’t want to, wasn’t able to, no.

His hand traced Andrés’ cheek, and was he hallucinating, or was his skin paler than Andrés’ now. But maybe Andrés’ skin had filled with color again, it must have been that, because he was living again, breathing again, right below Martín’s face.

Martín felt as if Andrés was sucking him out. It was just air, of course, maybe Andrés couldn’t breathe through his nose, but it felt like so much more. Like he was taking Martín, and Martín was offering himself up to Andrés, willingly, to be taken, to be eaten alive.

It felt right, as if that had been his purpose all along, as if it had been in his nature to do this for Andrés. To be this for him. Martín couldn’t find any hesitation in him, any regrets, not when there were strong hands pressing into his back, not when there was hot breath filling his mouth. This was where he was supposed to be.

He barely registered when arms started pulling him away.

A shocked screech escaped his mouth when it was separated from Andrés’, a sound he couldn’t recognize as his own. When Andrés hands let go, his fingernails were red from Martín’s blood.

It didn’t matter.

Andrés was alive.

Martín turned around, smiling at the others, because they had made it, they had kept their promise. Andrés was alive, he was breathing, Martín had heard it, had felt it. And his breath had been warm, and his grip had been strong, he was moving again.

They all looked at him as if they had seen a ghost.

Martín turned towards Nedor, the euphoria he had felt a second ago starting to waver.

“What’s wrong? It worked, didn’t it?”

But Nedor only stared at him, frozen in place. When he spoke, his voice sounded even weaker than usually.

“I’m sorry, Martín. This was never supposed to happen.”

What? What was he talking about?

“This is exactly what was supposed to happen,” Martín gestured towards Andrés. He could hear him moving around in the coffin now, maybe he was trying to get up, out of it.

He turned around to check, but was stopped by Nedor speaking up again.

“Martín, wait- “

Nedor reached out to him, but his arm didn’t even get close to him.

Martín frowned.

“ _Cojones_ , what is wrong?”

Nedor’s head turned towards him at the sound of his voice.

“Martín, you’re… you’re…”

The way he struggled to find the words told Martín that there really was something off. He looked so uncertain. Terrified.

Martín looked down at himself.

The first thing he noticed was how pale he was, his arms a ghostly white.

He lifted one hand to his face, regarding it closely. It looked… weird. Unnatural. Not just white, but something about it reminded him of that strange drink they had given him. Was it simmering?

He balled his hand into a fist and focused on Nedor again.

“What did you do to me?”

Nedor still looked so shocked, so afraid. Martín felt a sudden urge to shake him out of this. He needed an explanation.

But Nedor seemed unable to speak.

Martín approached him, his hands reaching out towards him.

His fingers never connected with the fabric of the other man’s coat. There weren’t any hands that could have grabbed Nedor's shoulders. They went right through him, as if Martín was just air.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed :)  
> Let me know what you thought!


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